


a fear you learn to love

by orphan_account



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death, Gen, I wanted to do both okay, Lonely Martin Blackwood, M/M, Poetry, Web Martin Blackwood, but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-10 14:27:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20529530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The poem is just a poem. Its power is in its words. It made things clear. Opened the world that had become more suffocating. Fear had no power over him when he wrote. They can tear his heart apart all they want, but when they fell into page and ink, they belonged to Martin. Still fear, but Martin’s.The poem is just a poem.Martin was the one who wrote it. He’s long gone now but somehow, he still saves the world.He’s in charge of this story.... Alternatively, Martin Blackwood dies and finds a way to defeat fear. Not necessarily in that order.





	a fear you learn to love

**Author's Note:**

> The setting's pretty ambiguous but it's around Mag151

_The truth is I’ve always been terrified of being left behind._

_Fear came and it ate the heart out of my chest._

_Fear and I became one. I held on tight so it could never leave. _

_The man I loved has long since been devoured._

_I didn’t do anything to save myself, not that I could._

_So I let the right fears crawl into my being and consume my body._

_“Stay,” it told me. “Stay and keep your love.”_

_There are different kinds of fears. Some you can use and some use you._

_Fear said to me, “You could not save him, so save everyone else.”_

_Fear told me the man I loved was gone and it had taken his place._

_Its hands were cold, fingers wrapped around mine like a predator’s cobwebs._

_I learned to live with fear holding my hand. It was comforting, in a way._

_A martyr is safer than a hero. Always the sacrifice. Never the victim._

_I held onto every fear I could so no one else would have to._

_My beloved was a monster, fear itself, and I couldn’t let it live._

_I tore all the fear from its chest and burned every piece I could find._

_Perhaps it’s not quite true, but this is what I want you to know:_

_It took away my personhood but I don’t regret it._

_Once I loved a man so much, I let fear swallow me whole._

* * *

There is a poem singing in the back of Martin’s mind. They come to him as if in a dream, his and not his at the same time.

The poem calls to him. Martin’s terrified of what will happen if he answers.

\--

_ “Statement begins. _

_ God, I’ll never stop feeling stupid saying that. I know Jon’s being devoured by an eldritch monster, but he sounds ridiculous. _

_ Jon… _

_ I don’t even know what to say. I’m sorry, I guess? Melanie, Basira. I know you guys need me and I’m not… I’m not going to be there for you. I’m sorry. _

_ But I _ need _ to do this. I know I probably sound stupid and like I’m going off the deep end--I’m not. I need to do this. Whatever it takes. To keep everyone safe. I can’t lose anyone else, alright? I can’t." _

\--

At some point, he stops counting time. It was a little before Jon woke up. And it got worse after Jon came back to the archives. Days and hours and minutes blurred together. He doesn’t sleep anymore. He hardly leaves the archives. Barely speaks to anyone at all.

That was the point of being lonely, after all, and Peter wants him to be _ very _ lonely.

How much time passes doesn’t matter, really. Things never really change. The loneliness is so cold, so suffocating, and there’s no escaping it.

It’s easier to let the fog swallow him these days, to stop resisting and let things just be, let himself get lost. He’s getting pretty good at it, which means things are getting really, really bad. It probably says a lot about his mental state.

But he doesn’t like thinking about how bad it’s getting, so he doesn’t. It makes things easier, not thinking about things.

That’s one of the things he’s learned to like about the Lonely. There’s not much thinking involved. There could be, but it’s easier if there isn’t. It’s easier to get lost if you’re not thinking about where you’re going and getting lost is easier than thinking about all the terrible things happening.

“Like a little circle,” Peter once told him. It was right after Peter had shoved him into the fog the first time, after he had dragged himself out pale and shaking with two nervous breakdowns under his belt. He’d been gone for two days. Not that anyone noticed. Or cared. If that was the point, Peter made it quite well. “We’re a bit like the Web that way, except we only do it to ourselves, getting tangled up in all those strings. It’s hard to find your way out of the fog, isn’t it? Much easier to just stop struggling and let it take over.”

He hadn’t said anything. He didn’t think he could. He was out of the fog but the cold was still buried in his bones. It made talking to yourself seem too much like a chore, and talking to other people a damn near impossibility.

That was the first time. There’ve been a lot of times after. He’s lost count of the times he let himself get lost. At some point, Peter’s stopped pushing him in because Martin was finding his way there on his own.

(“Can get quite addicting,doesn’t it? You just don’t get that kind of peace and quiet in the city anymore.”)

He doesn’t even remember the first time he fell into it on his own volition. It just happened. He remembers it was the first time he didn’t cry in the fog.

The fog was peaceful. He thinks he may be learning to love it a little.

He doesn’t think about it. It’s just easier. No institute, no friends, no life. Just nothing. Sometimes, he’s not even sure he can hear himself think. It’s really quiet in there. He doesn’t quite feel like a person.

(Martin. He was a person named Martin once. Martin Blackwood. But that person’s slipping further and further away each moment and so does the name.

He was a person named Martin once. 

Now, he doesn’t know what he is.)

He just doesn’t think about it. He just learns to live with it.

He still watches Jon sometimes, though he never talks to him. Couldn’t keep his eyes off him once he woke up. Actually sees him more now that he moves more easily in and out of the fog. Peter hadn’t stopped him. 

Nothing more lonely than a whole lot of longing, right? Knowing something is within reach but not really. It’s another one of those things Peter likes to tell him.

Jon’s not okay. No one’s okay but Jon is so close to crumbling it looks like a breeze could carry him away. He’s not sleeping anymore, not eating, barely looks like he’s hanging onto his sanity, most day. And he’s not… He’s not feeding. 

He’s killing himself. The Eye is killing him, leaving only the empty husk of the Archivist behind. He tries to deny it, but there isn’t much difference between Jonathan Sims and the Beholding, these days.

He thinks seeing him that way might have hurt him once. Before… Before a lot of things. He doesn’t know when he changed, only that he did. Maybe when Peter came but the whispers started before that. The fears had claimed him a long time ago. The Martin who existed before the archives…

Well, he died when he signed the contract to be a research assistant with absolutely zero qualifications.

When he looks at Jon now, he has to force himself to look and resist the fog’s cool, welcoming embrace. Jon can’t see him but he can’t make himself want to stay, either.

_ You couldn’t save him. You couldn’t save him. You couldn’t save him. _

It would be so easy to reach out, wouldn’t it? To step out from the fog and make himself known. Tell Jon it’s going to be okay. Tell Jon things will get better soon. Tell Jon that Martin, the Martin he knew, found a way to save the world so he doesn’t have to work himself the ground anymore. Everyone is safe. Martin will save everyone. Martin can finally stop all the bad things from happening.

He never does. It’s kind of the point of hiding. Martin is gone and there’s no point trying to find him. He knows he should care but the fog muddles everything. He can’t quite think properly anymore.

The spiders keep him company sometimes. He doesn’t really see them, but he can sense them, crawling out of the hidden crevices of the institute, weaving their webs. They sing in his ear, stories and whispers and other things. They’re always there when he comes back to the world, keeping him company. Keeping the loneliness at bay.

The world feels a little clearer when they’re there. Less cold. He hears their song and the crushing weight in his chest eases. Just a little.

He sees their webs and is careful not to let any touch him.

Peter doesn’t notice them, at least he thinks Peter hasn’t noticed them. It’s hard to tell with him. At any rate, He pretends he hasn’t, either.

The yellow door is always visible out of the corner of his eye and he thinks, _ not yet. _

\--

_ “Are you sure you’re not… feeding?” _

_ “I’m not. I swear. I’m--I’m trying Basira. _

_ “I know you are. It’s just…” _

_ “Just what?” _

_ “You look sick. Really sick. I’m not sure how long you can hold out.” _

_ A sigh. “For as long as I can. Hopefully, it’ll be enough.” _

\--

He doesn’t really write poems anymore. Not for a long time now. Words seem to slip from his fingers these days. It’s hard to talk. He never really has anything he has to say.

It’s just that one line that comes to him, over and over. It keeps him up at night. A song and a whisper and a command. And a condemnation. 

_ You could not save him. You could not save him. You could not save him. _

The tapes come to him. They want his story. They want to hear his voice. They want his poem. He doesn’t carry them around but they’re always there within his reach. They turn on on their own. Recording conversations, keeping him company. Peter gives him statements to read and sometimes… Sometimes he finds some sitting right in front of him. 

He stays where he’s put.

The poem is a mantra in his head but he doesn’t write poems anymore. Martin Blackwood wrote poems but he doesn’t feel very much like Martin Blackwood. He’d have to be a person for that and people have… People have thoughts.

He hasn’t let himself think for a long time.

But still, the poem continues to sing to him. Whenever it does, he senses a tape recorder click on.

He pretends he doesn’t notice those, either. 

The statements keep coming. There’s a stack of them on desk, slowly pushing everything away. He doesn’t want to touch them, so he just lets them be.

The tapes continue to record his every movement.The temptation is too great sometimes.

He ignores them. But there’s always a blank piece of paper somewhere in the archives and a pen he can steal from someone’s desk. The line continues to call to him. Spider song trails after him, keeping the fog at bay no matter how much he just wants to fall into it.

He writes the line down, folds the paper up, and shoves it in his pocket. Writing poetry isn’t really him anymore, but it was and that has to count for something. It keeps Martin Blackwood from disappearing completely.

The words feel like a brand against his skin.

_ You could not save him, so save everyone else. _

\--

_ “I told Basira I haven’t been doing it but it’s not quite true. At least, I don’t think it’s true. It’s hard to tell these days. Things don’t feel… real anymore. They’re all just stories. _

_ I was in the library. I don’t really go out of the Institute anymore. Too risky. But… It was foolish of me, wasn’t it? And she was just there. She was looking up a book on vampires. A graduate student. Or she would have been if she hadn’t witnessed her family murder each other. _

_ She thought it was vampires, hence the book. She told her story easily enough, once I asked. I don’t… I don’t really regret it. I--I know I should--I’ve probably given that girl enough nightmares to last a lifetime. She’ll dream of her mother for the rest of her life, tearing off her father’s face with her hands before feasting on it. _

_ … But I don’t regret it. I don’t know how to tell the others about that. I can barely admit it to myself. I don’t regret it and… I don’t want to stop. I don’t think I _ can _ stop. Not anymore. _

_ I know I should tell them, let them put me down before I get too dangerous, but I can’t do that, either. I can’t. The Beholding--I can’t tell them. _ It’s _ stopping me. _

_ It was the Flesh, by the way, the one that killed her family. Working through a Leitner. They devoured each other. _

_ Statement ends.” _

\--

Spiders trail after him and sometimes, he’d turn around and there’d be a yellow door waiting to be opened.

He just turns away and lets the fog swallow him whole.

The poem comes to him and he writes like a madman. He finds hidden crevices, finds places Peter would never go to. The fog is familiar. The more he writes, the less he goes, but he can still sense it. Can sense when Peter is lurking within.

He doesn’t follow him. He hides. The more he writes, the more he feels alive. 

He still wields the Lonely’s power, but it doesn’t quite hold as much power over him anymore. _ He _grows more powerful. Less like he’s being devoured and more like he’s being accepted.

“I really don’t appreciate your meddling,” he tells the spiders. “I was doing just fine on my own. I have a plan.”

_ A martyr is safer than a hero. _

He writes that line, too. The poem is much too clever to be his. It’s definitely not something he can pull off on his own. It wouldn’t have been something he’d come up with. At least, he doesn’t think. Martin Blackwood was never much of a poet. The words aren’t his but still he keeps writing. It may have been terrifying, once upon a time. Now it doesn’t even make the top 10.

“I know what you’re trying to do,” he says, “and I do not appreciate it.”

He looks at the series of lines. Words that he wrote but are definitely not his. He thinks he’s getting quite tired of being manipulated.

He takes the words and starts at the end.

\--

_ “There was another one. I can’t--I can’t stop it anymore. The more I find the more I see. I see them all now. So many stories and I can’t--I can’t stop myself. I don’t even think it’s me anymore, it’s the Archivist. I feel less and less like me everyday. _

_ Basira’s right. I’m a monster. I’d ask them to put me down but I don’t think that works on me anymore. I--I--I--” _

_ “Jon?” _

_ “Melanie I--” _

_ “Jesus you’re covered in blood--” _

_ “Melanie you can’t be here--” _

_ “What have you done--” _

_ “Melanie--” _

_ “Jon!” _

_ “I said. You can’t be here.” _

[The hiss of static. Recording cuts off abruptly.]

\--

_ Fear came and-- _

_ Fear came and it _

_ Fear came. _

Fear came and what? It’s not like he could actually write good poetry before. He didn’t write about concrete stuff back then. He wrote about the beauty of nature and the meaning of life. It’s a lot more painful, putting something he went through in excruciating detail.

Maybe that was the point.

Jon has his statements, has his knowledge. Martin had his poems, but Martin is lost so all that’s left is the promise of finding order in the inexplicable.

The spiders can’t quite keep the fog at bay anymore. He spends more time there than he does in the real world. It doesn’t matter. He has his poem. He has the promise of a pen and paper taking some of the pain away.

He has the promise of words. The promise of words.

Thinking hurts but it’s real. 

Peter comes find him sometimes. They go to the fog together, hours and days and weeks. It doesn’t matter. Time doesn’t matter. Not to the Lonely. Not to any kind of fear.

Peter’s probably getting suspicious. There’s nothing to be done about it, unfortunately.

One time, after they step out of the fog and back into the institute, he asks Peter, “what happens when you betray the Lonely?”

Peter just raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t ask the obvious question. He doesn’t say anything, really. It is a pretty stupid question. The Lonely is fear. Fear is its gift and fear is its punishment.

“Alright then, another question.”

“By all means.”

“What happens when the Lonely betrays you?”

Peter laughs. “Our patron won’t do that. As long as we serve it well, they remain faithful.”

He doesn’t say anything and Peter disappears shortly after that. It’s an oddly human answer. It’s a strange thing, to try to understand fears through human eyes. 

Even gods need fear to survive. Who’s to say fear needs anything other than itself?

“I still don’t appreciate your meddling,” he tells the spiders. They don’t answer. They’re weaving something on his desk, forming a familiar shape. It glints in the harsh light of the archives, sharp and unforgiving.

The fog continues to come. It’s somehow better and worse at the same time. The cold is biting but he doesn’t fall into it so much as pull it towards him. There’s a difference there, but he can’t tell what.

“I don’t appreciate being controlled,” he tells the spiders. “But I’m not completely against working towards a common goal.”

This is his story. 

It will not be ruled by fear.

\--

_ “So how are you doing?” _

_ “I haven’t been _ feeding, _ if that’s what you’re asking.” _

_ “Well that’s good to know, but it isn’t. I asked how you’re doing, Jon.” _

_ “What does it matter, Daisy?” _

_ “Doesn’t really. Except you look like total crap. And I know how hard it is to resist the call, alright? You can’t be as alright as you’re saying you are.” _

_ “I’m _ fine. _ ” _

_ “If you say so, but I… I can’t believe I’m offering, but if you ever want to talk…” _

_ “I don’t.” _

_ “I haven’t been seeing Melanie around anymore.” _

_ “And why are you asking me? I’m not her keeper.” _

_ “No, but you know where everyone in the Institute is. It’s one of your creepy powers, isn’t it?” _

_ “I don’t know where Melanie is.” _

_ “See, I think you’re lying. I think you know exactly where she is. And I think you just don’t want to tell us.” _

_ “You should leave.” _

_ “Jon--” _

_ “ _ Leave _ !” _

\--

The fog is safe. The fog is cold but he’s gotten quite used to shivering in the dark.

His mother died on a rainy Tuesday. She died screaming at him. Screaming for him. Screaming for his dad.

She died screaming, “I want my life back! I want him back! Give him back! I don’t want to be alone anymore!’

She died sobbing.

Peter made Martin watch. He cloaked the two of them in a fog and grinned while Martin furiously tried to blink past his tears. 

He’s pretty sure Peter killed his mum. He doesn’t say anything about it, either.

The night after his mother's funeral, Peter Lukas asked Martin Blackwood to serve the Lonely. Martin agreed. He was tired. He didn't have the strength to do anything else.

That was the beginning. In some ways, it was also an end.

\--

_ “Jon’s lying to us.” _

_ “Yeah no shit.” _

_ “How many have you found?” _

_ “Three, four, too many. I’m pretty sure there’s more out there. He’s getting better at finding them and hiding his tracks.” _

_ “Melanie’s been missing for weeks.” _

_ “I know.” _

_ “So what do we do?” _

_ “We do what we have to.” _

_ “And how do we know he doesn’t already… _ know _ what we’re planning.” _

_ “Does it matter? He needs to be stopped. Whatever it takes.” _

_ “Whatever it takes." _

\--

He finds spider silk at his feet sometimes. When he steps out of the fog. Their songs echo through his dreams. A temptation. And a warning.

_ A little bit like the Web. _

He doesn’t really leave the institute anymore. He thinks if he did, he’d find a flat filled with cobwebs. He doesn’t really sleep, either, if he can help it.

He writes. Writes and writes and writes. Writes the same line three different ways then crosses it out. Writes it again. Tries writing it forwards and tries writing it backwards. It never gets better but the poem is rapidly becoming an obsession. He thinks Peter may have noticed but he doesn’t care anymore.

He starts at the beginning then goes to the end. Makes them the words go around and around in circles until he can’t tell the difference anymore. The middle’s more complicated. That’s where he actually has to put the truth in. It’s almost too painful to think about.

But the pain makes him think. And thinking drives the fog away.

The yellow door waits for him, out of the corner of his eye. He’s the only one who seems to see.

_ Come home little hatchling. _

_ Wait, _ is all he allows himself to think. _ Just wait. _

\--

_ “Martin, wherever you are, if you’re even listening to these things, we could really use your help. _

_ I know you want to save Jon but that isn’t possible anymore. _

_ I know you’d want to be here for this. So be here, alright? We could use everyone.” _

\--

He thinks he understands now. 

“Will you help me?” he asks the spiders. It almost feels as if they’re standing at attention. The thing they’ve made sits at his desk, silent, asking to be held. It’s sharper than anything he’s ever seen, made of spider silk and whatever power the Web has. He understands what they’re asking him.

Working towards a common goal. It’s easier to work with the spiders than with any other entity. You can work _ with _them. They place you under no illusions, tell you no lies.

“Why are you helping me? I already serve two patrons. I don’t think there’s room for another.”

_ And who told you that, little hatchling _?

His breath hitches. He understands understands understands. He thinks he’s beginning to understand.

He already has two patrons. What was one more? What does it matter? What does fear care for human whims?

_ Fear came. _

_ Fear came and swallowed me whole. _

No one ever said it could only happen once.

He understands.

The poem finally clicks into place. Forwards and backwards. It ends just as it begins and the other way around. Things mean different things if you look at it in different ways. It’s the same world but he found a different way to look at it.

The poem is finished. He knows what he wants to say. He leaves one copy on Jon’s desk and another one where he knows Peter will find it. He hopes his intentions are clear.

He understands what he’s supposed to do now.

\-- 

_ “They’re moving against me. They’ve been doing all this research and still don’t understand. It’s incredibly simple, a truth every child knows: _

_ There is no defeating fear. The best you can do is hide from it. And no matter where you hide, the monsters will eventually find you.” _

\--

“I’m very disappointed in you Martin.”

The fog closes in on him and he doesn’t even flinch. He expects it. That’s what the tapes were for, after all. They keep track of everything. And they have a pesky habit of finding their way to people who need it the most. The moment Peter returned within their sight… Well, all he had to do was ask.

“You make it sound like I should care.”

Peter is very suddenly in his space, breath ghosting his neck. It was bound to happen eventually. It doesn’t matter. He knows what he has to do.

“I thought we had a deal.” And Peter does sound genuinely disappointed. Underneath all that anger, he actually sounds hurt. “You were touched by the Web, all tangled up in their strings, but we _ had a deal. _”

He turns so he can look at Peter. It was hard to focus on him back then, like he’d forgotten how to exist out of the fog. But the Lonely’s taken in Martin as its own now. He sees the way Peter keeps half his soul in the fog at all times.

“I didn’t betray our patron,” he says evenly. “No one ever said I could serve only one.”

“That is the very definition of betrayal.”

“I call it diversifying my interest,” he says. “You don’t seem to have any of our best interests at heart. I couldn’t let it go on.”

Peter stares at him for a long time. He thinks he might be getting angry. He thinks Martin Blackwood would have be afraid of that anger, but… There’s nothing Peter can do to him that he hasn’t already done to himself ten times over.

Peter doesn’t get angry. He doesn’t kill Martin. He bursts out into laughter.

“Elias was right about you,” Peter says, still shaking from laughter. “You are a tricky one. Unpredictable, too. Serving two patrons, three actually. I’m not sure anyone’s actually survived trying that before.”

He might have taken that as a compliment once. He might have taken pride it in. But that was a long time ago.

Martin Blackwood--the person who could still feel those things--is long gone.

Without warning, the force of the fog is bearing down upon him. It might have been terrible but he’d been in the fog so long now. It’s almost like a second home these days.

“Has it occurred to you,” and this might be the angriest Peter’s ever sounded, “that the Mother of Puppets is just using you to get to the Lonely_ ? _”

He shrugs. “Does it matter?”

_ Some fears use you and some you can use. _

He shoves the knife between Peter’s ribs. A knife woven out of webstring, sharper than any metal. Peter tries to fall into the fog but he keeps it back. There are webs between his fingers and he uses them to keep Peter in place.

Peter doesn’t speak. He’s too dead. The Lonely can’t protect him from that, unfortunately.

The person who was once Martin Blackwood does the only thing he can do, the only thing that feels natural: he smiles.

\--

_ “Peter has to die. I know that now. _

_ He meddles too much. Walking into a sacred place that doesn’t belong to him, trying to take over. He has no power here. He refuses to serve anything other than what he’s come to know. _

_ It's kind of ironic, really. I used to be so scared of him. Now he’s going to regret not being scared of me.” _

\--

It wasn’t about the poem. He’s had nothing else. He writes the poem but the poem wasn’t the end. It wasn’t the solution. It wasn’t even the means.

The poem is just a poem. Its power is in its words. It made things clear. Opened the world that had become more suffocating. Fear had no power over him when he wrote. They can tear his heart apart all they want, but when they fell into page and ink, they belonged to Martin. Still fear, but Martin’s. 

The poem is just a poem. 

Martin was the one who wrote it. He’s long gone now but somehow, he still saves the world. 

He’s in charge of this story.

\--

_ “You should leave.” _

_ “Martin!” _

_ “Jon knows about your plan. The tapes keep track of everything around here.” _

_ “Then why hasn’t he stopped us?” _

_ “Because it’s a good story.” _

_ “It doesn’t matter what he knows. We _ have _ to do this.” _

_ “You need to leave. Let me handle this. Trust me.” _

_ “Oh because you’ve been oh so trustworthy these past few months.” _

_ “Leave.” _

[The sound of a door creaking open.]

_ “You’re--” _

_ “It’ll take you where the Eye can’t find you. Regroup. Think of a better plan. Run away now because you’re not winning this fight.” _

_ “You’ve been working with the Web!” _

_ “I’ve been working with lots of things.” _

_ “And we’re just supposed to trust you? After all you’ve done? All the secrets, all the lies, you’ve been working with them--” _

_ “Trust Martin. This is… This is what he wanted. This is what he gave himself up for. He wanted you safe. It’s the only reason I’m giving you this chance. Live to fight another day because I promise you, if you stay, it’s not a fight you’re going to win.” _

[A long moment of silence. The scuffling of feet. Daisy is protesting but her voice grows softer. A door clicks shut.]

  
_ “Keep them safe. _ Please. _ You promised. Just keep them safe.” _

\--

He burns the archives down. 

He should have done it a long time ago, when they’d taken Elias down and Jon and the others decided to take down the Circus. He could have. He had the fire and the archives are full of paper. A little gasoline and it would have gone up in flames in a second.

But he didn’t. He held himself back. Too busy denying the spider’s song. He hadn’t had the fog back then, either. The Eye had the strongest pull. He couldn’t destroy the only patron he had.

Now he has more than one patron. It’s easy enough to light the fire. The tapes scream but he ignores it. Spiders are gathering at his feet. The fog is a safe place, cool and welcoming.

“This is what you wanted, huh?” he asks mildly. “Jon and Elias are too unpredictable. And with Peter playing double agent. Shakes things up too much, doesn’t it? Webs break when the cling to move unpredictably.”

The spiders don’t answer. They never do. He likes that about them. They never order him around, just nudged him in the right direction. It doesn’t matter if he wanted to be trapped in their web or not. He already is. He didn’t have to change. They just used what he already wanted. It feels more… mutually beneficial that way.

“Martin!” He turns. The fire’s getting pretty uncomfortable. He was just seconds away from stepping into the safety of the fog when the door burst open.

Jon comes rushing through, manic, eyes shining in a not-human way. No, not Jon. Jon died months ago. The person facing him is the Archivist, nothing but an avatar of the Beholding. A servant of fear, just like Martin.

“Martin!” the Archivist asks. His voice is desperate. Terrified. It’s strange he didn’t see this coming. The Lonely is a good patron to have, all things considered. Not even the Eye can see through it. “What are you doing?”

“This place is tainted,” he says. “Too many human arguments. It doesn’t serve the powers well, anymore. It’s just a nuisance.”

It was their fault, really. Fighting as hard as they did. Refusing to give in. The rituals were a lie but they meddled enough to leave a mark. The fears are constant. The Eye got greedy. Got lazy. Started giving its avatars the power of _ choice. _It got the interesting stories it wanted but it also tipped the balance too far.

Fears are a constant. The best way to serve them is to leave them be.

And everyone does end up serving them, one way or another. Some know, but most don’t. Everyone’s afraid at some point. The fears feed on them regardless.

The Archivist is stunned in horror. The fire weakens him but he tries batting at it, tries to put it out. 

“There’s no stopping it now,” he says. The fire is almost searing hot. The spiders have disappeared and the fog’s safety calls to him. 

“What have you done?” the Archivist asks, sounding remarkably like Jon. He’s going to kill himself, trying to save his patron’s seat of power. And his patron will just find another Archivist. The Eye won’t save him. The thought sends a pang of loss through him.

Martin loved Jon once. Jon’s gone now and so is Martin, but he still remembers the feeling. He thinks it may have been important. He holds onto the longing he once felt, all that pain.

The archives blaze around him. All that knowledge, all the stories, finally lost.

He seizes the creature that looks like Jon and drags him into the fog.

The Archivist screams

\--

_ “I want you to know, whoever’s listening, past or present Archivist, that Martin Blackwood died a good man. It seems important to say. You probably don’t even know him. He was utterly unremarkable. Didn’t even finish high school. But I remember him. I remember parts of him. He was good. I know he was. He was a good man. _

_ He gave himself up because he didn’t want to see anyone hurt. He’d seen too much of that. I don’t understand much about right and wrong anymore, but I think that means he died good. _

_ Yes. Martin Blackwood died a good man. _

_ That’s how I want him to be remembered.” _

\--

The fog is empty. There’s nothing to learn. Nothing to discover.

The Archivist screams. It heaves. It shakes until it looks like it’s going to break into splinters.

He watches it, head tilted.

“It’s probably impossible for you, but you should try to get comfortable,” he says. “We’re going to be here for a while.”

The Archivist turns to him, eyes glowing. “Release me,” he demands. The compulsion tries to pull at whatever strand of thought is left in his mind but there’s nothing to be found. Nothing to be learned. He wonders what the Archivist sees inside the fog? It feels… less here. Less human. Less real.

He laughs.

“Your power doesn’t work here, Archivist,” he says. “It’s an empty place with empty people.”

The Archivist doesn’t hear him. The Archivist doesn’t listen. It’s alright. He has his own story to tell.

“Alright, I’ll give you what you want. Statement begins, I suppose,” he says. “It took me a while to realize. Martin wanted to help you know? He wanted to fix things. he made a deal with the devil, for lack of a better term. He died, of course. That’s how it works. You sell your soul and well… You lose your soul. He understood that. He knew what would happen when he came to Peter, when he started listening to the spider song, even when he started recording statements. You shouldn’t feel sorry for him. He died… What was it you call it? A hero--No, a martyr. He died a martyr. It’s the best thing to ask for, all things considered.

So he died and well, I was born. I don’t really know what I’m supposed to be, I don’t think I’m a person, exactly, but I’m not a real avatar, either. Not in the way you think about it, anyway. But I seem to be doing alright on my own. 

I’ve realized a few things. See the thing with Martin is, he was unfortunate enough to get the attention of three fears. They all wanted him for themselves. The Eye had the strongest claim but Martin kept hearing the spider’s song. And well, once Peter Lukas came into the picture. It was all over for him.

So, with all those powers vying for his attention, I realized a few things. We keep thinking of the fears as gods, and we’re almost like their own personal cult. But they’re not gods, are they? They’re fear, something much older, something much more unknowable. They don’t need to be the most powerful. They just need people to be afraid. There are different ways, different reasons for fear, but it’s all the same, too, isn’t it? That feeling. That pounding in your chest, the way your throat closes up, the blood draining from your face. Fear is fear. There’s no defeating it but there’s no winning it, either. It’s not a battle.”

_ Once I loved a man so much, I let fear swallow me whole. _

“Whichever you’re serving, the Eye or the Lonely or the Web, it doesn’t matter. You’re just a servant of fear. And you know what else I’ve discovered?” He pauses. Admittedly, he’s a bit curious what the Eye would make of this story.

The Archivist is shaking so much but he’s fallen silent.

“I’ve discovered,” the person who was once Martin says. “That to serve fear is to love it. Falling is terrifying but flying is the best feeling in the world. Being alone is oppressive but it’s freeing as well. Being controlled is, well, terrifying, for lack of a better word, but it’s also a lot easier. And the more you know, the more scared you are, and the more you need to know, isn’t that right, Archivist?

I learned to love all of fear, Archivist, not just the ones who call to me.”

It’s a very human sentiment. To be human is to be afraid. So he let himself be as afraid as he can be, sunk into it as deep as he could that it tainted the insides of his lungs. Now he breathes in fear. It keeps him alive and lets him use it as he pleases.

“They’re not so different, once you think about them. They have a lot more in common than you think. Falling into the fog isn’t so different than getting tangled up in webs. You don’t have choice in either matter. 

But Jon always did have trouble with vague answers. And he hated letting go, not knowing the answer. Maybe that was why the Web rejected him.

In any case, Archivist, your archives are burning down. We’re staying here until it does and really, time is strange in this place. We might be gone for months. You’re afraid aren’t you? It’s alright. Everyone’s afraid. But I think you can grow to love it, too, if you try hard enough. Martin did and look where he is now.”

He spreads his hands, a smile stretching across his lips.

“Statement ends,” he says.

The Archivist says nothing. Really, the fog is enough, powerful and all-encompassing. There’s nothing left to be said.

\--

_ “This is probably the last recording I’ll make as me. I’ve struck the deal with Peter and well… There’s no going back from that. We say there is, but Tim’s right. You play along with the monster and you become one. _

_ It… It isn’t so bad. I couldn’t save Jon, and let’s face it, he’s probably never going to hear this. But I’m just--I’m so tired of being left behind. I’m going to do this. It doesn’t matter what I become. What matters is--What matters is everyone’s gonna be safe. _

_ Everyone. _

_ Everyone’s gonna be safe. I'll make sure of it. _

_ Statement ends.” _

\--

“So,” he asks once he deems it safe to go back to the real world, “do you think you’re willing to work with the Web?” He doesn’t ask about the Lonely yet. The Archivist still trembles so beautifully. They’ll work their way up to that.

The archives are gone, burned to a crisp. Nothing left but the smell of burning paper and the pang of desolation that comes with the loss of something great. Basira and Daisy are gone, too. They’re probably going to come back. They’ll definitely find a way back. Probably come in all guns blazing and try to save them. But that’s a problem for another day.

The Archivist remains. Fears can’t really die. You can hurt them, though. Losing the archives is definitely a blow he’s going to have trouble recovering from. The Archivist undoubtedly wants to kill him. But the Web’s strings shimmer in the right kind of light and the Lonely’s fog is a cool breeze calling to him.

Here’s something the fears never want you to know: you can serve more than one because they have a lot more in common than you think. But some don’t like it. They’re quite possessive creatures, vying for as many creatures that belong to them and only them. It’s an oddly human trait.

The Eye is especially guilty of that particular desire.

“Tell me,” the Archivist demands. It’s been more than a year since the Beholding took Jon. He held on for a while but there’s no going back once fear’s dug its claws into you deep enough. He would know. So many fears vying for his attention. He had to choose the best way to be afraid. In the end, he didn’t have to choose at all. Jon never had a choice in anything.

Jon was lost the moment he read his first statement. He’s made his peace with that.

“I couldn’t save Jon,” he says, “so I decided I needed to save everyone else.”

“Tell me what happened,” the Archivist orders. Somewhere, a tape recorder clicks on. “Start from the beginning.”

He smiles, baring his teeth. He looks the Archivist in the eye with no fear. He has nothing to hide from the Beholding. His job is done. Anything else that happens after is just… extra. A punishment, maybe, but he likes to think of it as a blessing. There’s a spider on the table. He takes it in his hand and lets it crawl between his fingers. 

“If you don’t mind, Archivist, I’d prefer to start at the end,” he says. 

* * *

_Once I loved a man so much, I let fear swallow me whole._

_It took away my personhood but I don’t regret it._

_Perhaps it’s not quite true, but this is what I want you to know:_

_I tore all the fear from its chest and burned every piece I could find._

_My beloved was a monster, fear itself, and I couldn’t let it live._

_I held onto every fear I could so no one else would have to._

_A martyr is safer than a hero. Always the sacrifice. Never the victim._

_I learned to live with fear holding my hand. It was comforting, in a way._

_Its hands were cold, fingers wrapped around mine like a predator’s cobwebs._

_Fear told me the man I loved was gone and it had taken his place._

_Fear said to me, “You could not save him, so save everyone else.”_

_There are different kinds of fears. Some you can use and some use you._

_“Stay,” it told me. “Stay and keep your love.”_

_So I let the right fears crawl into my being and consume my body._

_I didn’t do anything to save myself, not that I could._

_The man I loved has long since been devoured._

_Fear and I became one. I held on tight so it could never leave. _

_Fear came and it ate the heart out of my chest._

_The truth is I’ve always been terrified of being left behind._

**Author's Note:**

> Please forgive my absymal attempt at poetry.
> 
> Chat with me on [tumblr](https://acediscowlng.tumblr.com) about podcasts. 
> 
> As always, your comments give me life.


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